


All dressed up

by saltstreets



Series: Not Dead Yet 'verse [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Post-Canon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23297473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: “Are you certain I can’t have the rank without the tassels?”“Quite certain,” said Crozier, amused at the role reversal. So often it had been him complaining about the need to dress up, and Jopson, long-suffering, waving an epaulette threateningly.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson
Series: Not Dead Yet 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675456
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	All dressed up

**Author's Note:**

> For Terror bingo: dress uniform.
> 
> I was trying to write sexy, sexy uniform kink and failed so badly that in my righteous rage I wrote a fic where everyone complains about the uniform instead. TAKE THAT. (The sexy fic will eventually see the light of day, just…not this day.)
> 
> Takes place in a rescued AU, and the rescue itself isn't the focus of the story but for the sake of setting the scene this is a fairly cheery fix-it, in which the crews marched north instead of south, and consequently got picked up by JCR et al from Fury Beach around summer 1849. Hence many still live, and with relatively low levels of trauma! Voila!

“I’m still amazed by how uncomfortable one uniform can be. Really. How am I supposed to move about freely?”

“You’re not. That’s why it’s a dress uniform. All you’re expected to do is stand about looking ornamental. But never fear, Jopson, the uniform in no way hampers your ability to eat and drink. As those are the only two things bound to be entertaining this evening.”

“I miss my jacket. If I ever fall into any water wearing this I’m going to sink like a stone.”

"I don't know why you're so surprised. You've put me in and out of these things for years, God knows." Crozier squinted at Jopson’s cuffs, and judiciously tugged one a little bit lower.

"It's different."

“When you’re the one actually wearing it? Yes, it would be.”

"I regret this," Jopson grumbled, craning his neck over the stiff buttoned collar. “The undress coat is alright, but there’s far too much gold here for me. Are you certain I can’t have the rank without the tassels?”

“Quite certain,” said Crozier, amused at the role reversal. So often it had been him complaining about the need to dress up, and Jopson, long-suffering, waving an epaulette threateningly. “I would say that you’ll get used to it, but then as you know I’ve never liked the dress uniform. Part of the reason why I try to avoid formal functions insofar as is possible.”

“Just as you are avoiding this one, I notice,” Jopson fixed Crozier’s reflection in the mirror with a reproachful expression. “Really, sir. Throwing me to the wolves on my own already?”

Crozier shrugged, unrepentant. “You should have had the good sense to have been invited to the theatre, therefore making it impossible for you to attend the party due to your desperate need to see, hrm, let’s see-”

“ _La Sonnambula_ , sir.”

“Yes. That.” Crozier grimaced.

“You can’t stand the opera, sir,” Jopson said, meaningfully.

“Neither can I stand the Admiralty. Just the latest impossible choice in the glamorous career of a naval captain.” He relented somewhat. Jopson did look rather doleful. Almost doleful enough to make Crozier change his mind and accompany him to the Admiralty’s latest display of lavish excess. “Don’t worry yourself. There’ll be plenty of officers you know. And the entire point of the thing is for you to be seen and admired and poached away from me by some upstart young captain with ambitions to find a passage through, oh, I don’t know, the Sahara.”

“Never, sir,” said Jopson loyally.

“You say that now. But as I keep telling you, I am _extremely_ determined only to sail the most dastardly dull routes from now on. I hear a very likely command may be in the cards ferrying a large amount of mechanical equipment to sugar refineries in the Americas, a posting which is almost guaranteed to come with a week in the doldrums, sweating and swearing at the wind.”

“It sounds better than wandering around the Arctic, freezing and swearing at the wind.”

“It does, doesn’t it.” Crozier flicked an imaginary speck of dust from Jopson’s shoulder, and examined him in the mirror. The effect was a good one. Jopson looked fine, very fine indeed, and Crozier, although admittedly biased, was satisfied that he would be catching eyes of all a manner of society that evening. And after all, who wouldn’t be interested in a promising young officer who had taken such a singular path to promotion? And one who was a famed returning member of Franklin’s Expedition at that. Wasn’t it funny, Crozier thought sourly, that the Navy kept flinging expeditions at the Northwest Passage with such gusto, and yet simply coming back empty handed but alive, having survived the miseries of the north, was enough to be lauded as a scion of exploration. In any case it was sure to do Jopson plenty of favours in society, low beginnings notwithstanding.

That in his new uniform the man might have been conjured to life from an official, idealised lithograph advertising the dashing young men of the Navy and all their upstanding morals and charms, didn’t hurt.

Jopson shifted uncomfortably. “The last time I attended one of these events I spent the entire time worried that someone was going to spring out at me and tell me to stop playing and get back to pouring brandy.”

“Well if anyone _does_ , you have your captain’s express permission to duel him,” said Crozier sternly. “And what’s more, your captain’s expectation that you will _win._ ”

“ _Captain,”_ said Jopson, despairingly, although it was the despair he so frequently used when Crozier was being ridiculous, and not the despair of a man quavering in the middle of dangerous soul-searching. Crozier was reassured that he was handling the change well enough. Not that he had been particularly concerned. If there was ever a man who Crozier had never needed to worry about being able to _handle something_ , it was Jopson.

After their return to England with Sir James and subsequent convalescence, and after Crozier had shouted at a sceptical board of trussed up uniforms, and after Jopson had passed the -reluctantly given- lieutenant’s examination, the man had taken to his new rank with admirable aplomb just as Crozier had expected. He had gone with Jopson to the first few Admiralty soirees, partially to make sure he would get on alright and partially because it was demanded of him to show his face at least once or twice after their not-so-triumphant revival from the dead. He had answered the prying questions as politely as he could, and managed to refuse every drink that had been shoved at him.

One final examination for insufficiently polished buttons or scuffed boots. All was in perfect order. There was certainly something to be said for the difference it made to the upkeep of a uniform to be owned by a former steward, rather than a former lord or, in Crozier’s case, a cynic. “There. You have my seal of approval. Go, eat, drink, be merry.” Crozier gave Jopson a pat on the shoulder.

Jopson gave him a look that spoke volumes. “I will. Enjoy the opera, Captain.”

“There’s no need to be hurtful, Jopson,” said Crozier, grinning. “Now go on. You spent a lot of money on that uniform, you might as well let people gawk at it.”


End file.
